She shook her head, biting back the tears. Maybe Gordon was right: she’d allowed the dividing lines between Ryall and her father to become muddied, confused; it wasn’t healthy, would only get in the way of her being objective, having a clear view.
Clear view. She wiped again at her eyes, dabbing her cheeks with the back of one hand, and once again the view of the bay ahead was clear. She only wished her troubled thoughts could as easily have been cleared.
After a moment she swung the car out again and continued on down the slow decline towards Chelborne Bay, clinging to the one consolation out of the whole mess: at least now her secret would remain forever buried, no reason for its exposure. Her life with Gordon and the children, like the view ahead, would continue much as it had done: bright, untroubled, with few worrying clouds.
TWELVE
Jean-Paul turned from Georges as he poured the drink from a decanter on the side cabinet.
‘One thing my brother does have good taste in. Brandy.’ Jean-Paul brought the glass over to Georges seated towards the end of the long table. Jean-Paul’s own glass was already in front of his position at its head. He raised it and smiled. ‘Sante!’
‘Yes. Cheers.’ Georges savoured its mellow burning as it sank down. An aged Ragnaud-Sabourin that Roman had bought for Jean-Paul at Christmas just past. Georges glanced back towards the door. ‘Isn’t Jon joining us?’
‘No, this is more family talk than business.’ Jean-Paul looked directly at Georges for the first time.
‘Oh, right.’ Georges should have guessed from the late hour and the brandy. A soft, mellow glint to Jean-Paul’s eyes, no hostility; but Georges thought he’d picked up a faint underlying concern, it wasn’t quite the uncompromising embrace he’d been seeking. ‘I thought this might have been about Giacomelli and Cuba. I talked briefly about it with Jon at the party last night.’
‘Yes, well… we can discuss that maybe tomorrow. Jon didn’t have much free time today.’ Jean-Paul glanced briefly past Georges’ shoulder, his train of though broken for a second. Then a faint smile creased the corner of his mouth. ‘Old man Vito Giacomelli apparently lost a packet down there when Castro took over and all the casinos closed. Art agrees with your assumption that when finally the trade embargoes lift, property prices there are going to skyrocket… and I think he’s tickled by the idea of making back some of the money the old man lost there. What we’ve got to do now is turn all of that nostalgic pay-back into a sound business proposition, and a clean way of doing it… if there is one.’ Jean-Paul took a swig of brandy and stood up, started pacing. ‘As I say we’ll talk more about it when Jon’s here.’ Fresh breath, and Georges was unsure whether the pacing was Jean-Paul getting his thoughts moving, or nerves, anxiety. ‘But it was in fact my recent visit with Art Giacomelli that prompted this meeting now. You know that Art has been following closely this bid of ours to change the nature of our business, move away from crime and become totally legitimate, clean?’
‘Yes, I… I know at least that you’ve confided in him about it more than anyone else. And that he’s the crime boss your family has maintained the closest ties with over the years.’
Jean-Paul clasped his brandy glass as if he were praying, then waved one hand away expressively. ‘This isn’t just about old man Vito and my father running liquor and cigarettes across the border in the fifties, or how close our families have been since… or even at the power level with how that association helped us later with our problem with the Cacchiones…’ The hand groped emptily at the air for a moment, and Georges sensed something difficult coming. Jean-Paul was normally conversationally fluid, no gaps between his thoughts and words, and yet now he was struggling. ‘Art was particularly helpful and supportive when Pascal died.’
Georges just nodded and looked down, sensing it was best not to interrupt the flow. Maybe that was the awkwardness: Pascal’s death. All Georges knew of the whole affair, imparted from Jon Larsen — Jean-Paul had never broached the subject directly — was that Giacomelli had intervened to stop their war with the Cacchiones after Pascal was shot. As reputedly America’s most powerful crime boss, he had that influence. When Arturo Giacomelli said stop, people stopped.
‘Yes, he’s interested in how we progress, how successful we are… because if it works for us it can work for him and maybe others. A sort of test case if you will.’ The hand started in motion again. ‘But it goes deeper than that… a lot of it tied in with Art’s thoughts, hopes and ambitions for his own family. Probably you don’t know too much about them?’
‘Well… only that he has a son, Vincent, who works closely with him in the business.’
‘Yes, Vincent, dear Vincent, who has given his all to his father… yet hardly gets a mention in praise.’ Jean-Paul looked sharply, directly at Georges. ‘But what you probably didn’t know is that Art has another son, Paul, and a daughter, Mia. Okay, Mia has never really come into the frame — she’s now at some college doing a fashion photography course, and there’s no expectation in any case on women coming into the family business. But what about Paul? He’s never in the news like Vincent, because he’s not involved in the family business — he’s at Annapolis with the Navy — but listening to Art you’d think that Paul was his only son. Paul this, Paul that. Paul could be a Navy Commander one day, did you know? He says it with such pride in his voice, as if that was the only thing of real importance to him. Totally neglecting the fact that his other son will one day run a multi-million dollar crime empire and continue his legacy, each and every day risking a bullet through the head for the privilege. And why, why?’ Jean-Paul threw his free hand towards Georges as if he was flinging dice. ‘…Why is he so blinkered, with eyes only for one son?’
‘I don’t know.’ Georges shrugged, easier now that Jean-Paul had found his flow, but still unsure where it was all heading.
‘Because he’s the son that’s managed to escape and make his own way, find some success outside of the family business.’ Jean-Paul sat back down and looked thoughtfully into his brandy glass for a second. ‘Oh sure, everyone looks at people like Vito and Art as the tough guys, the wise guys — but it never gets any easier. They start tough, no question: fronting longshoremen with bill-hooks and Union strong-arms wielding baseball bats, getting their first blood, then later more killings over turf or to rise up the ranks — some of it hands-on with having to pull a wire through a man’s neck — but it never gets any easier.’ Jean-Paul relaxed open the hand he’d clenched suddenly tight. ‘Because as the money rolls in, their private, home lives become softer: they move out of their old neighbourhood, buy a house with a pool and a gardener, their wives get their hair done each week and have private fitness and yoga instructors, and their kids go to college and get an education. Suddenly the mean streets where it all started become but a distant dream. And with all that, when they sit back and look around them-’ Jean-Paul waved his hand in a half-circle. ‘It starts to hit them as ludicrous why they should still fear getting the wrong side of a bullet, still have to look over their shoulders.’ The hand pulled back in and Jean-Paul shrugged. ‘Sure, they themselves probably accept that fear of a bullet, they’ve lived with it from day one as part of the package, the ‘territory’. But they start to expect something better for their family. For them, they want that fear gone; they don’t want them to have to live the same way they have. That’s why Art was so outraged with what happened to Pascal — because Pascal was never really involved in the business, he was just on the fringes doing some bookkeeping. If his music career had been more successful, he wouldn’t even have done that. So Art saw him as someone on the edge who almost escaped — but never quite made it. Still they got him. Art was outraged because he felt that if they could do that — they were only a step away from yanking Paul from Annapolis and putting a bullet through his head. And the golden rule has always been hands off family outside of the business. That’s why when Art intervened with the Cacchiones, the white flag came up so quickly. They’d broken the rules, and knew it.’ He swilled his brandy and took a quick slug. ‘Though by then it was too late for Pascal.’